by Dave Duncan
“But not you,” John said. He was drunk.
The resulting silence might have been intended to terrify the youth, but it did not seem to. Eventually he was the one who broke it.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Lord King?”
“A problem. I have a problem. Two problems. I mean you are a problem, but I have another problem—can’t find anyone willing to rid me of the first one. Problem, that is.”
Arthur’s fists clenched. “You mean no one is willing to blind me and castrate me as you ordered?”
“Never did,” his uncle said, slurring the words. “Mean we talked a lot about it, but I didn’in’t sign that.”
“And now you have signed my death warrant but can’t find an executioner willing to shed royal blood?” His voice was admirably controlled.
“Got no choice. You swore allegiance. You agreed I was rightflull king. Then you ’scaped. You led’n army ’gainst me.”
“Escape?” Arthur snapped. “If I escaped from Le Mans, then I was a prisoner, and if I was a prisoner, then any words I swore were sworn under duress. I am the rightful heir!”
“Tha’s the problem—words! Words!” the king muttered, and walked into the cell, drawing his sword.
Durwin! Durwin! What's wrong? Wake up! Wake up!
For a few seconds I heard Lovise’s voice as she tried to rouse me, and then I slid back into Myrddin Wyllt’s sty of nightmares.
I was in a town I knew quite well, Le Mans, in Anjou. Some houses had been smashed by rocks that trebuchets had thrown too far, and there were fires burning in the distance, but the inhabitants must have taken refuge elsewhere, for the only souls I saw were a troop of soldiers marching along. In their midst rode King Philip, triumphant.
I saw Chateau Gaillard, King Richard’s masterpiece of a castle overlooking the Seine, only 25 miles from Rouen itself, a stronghold he had sworn could never be taken. I saw it with a breach in the outermost wall, and a French flag flying above the keep.
And so on. City after city, stronghold after stronghold, I was shown the fall of the Angevin empire. Henry II and Richard the Lionheart must have been weeping in their graves. But then came something different.
I stood by a marshy, reed-infested river under a summer sky, almost certainly back in England. In the distance stood a castle I recognized as Windsor, not far from Westminster, so the river could only be the Thames. When I turned around, I faced an astonishing sight—a great array of baronial pavilions, each in its own colors and flying its distinctive pennant. There were several dozen of them, each guarded by knights and squires, but the greatest and most impressive boasted the three-lion standard of the king of England. I had seen similar gatherings in the Holy Land, but much more diluted, scattered throughout an army camp. Here there was no army, just the assembled nobility and senior clergy of England.
I moved in closer. In a central clearing between the royal pavilion and the host of barons’ tents, a meeting was in progress. King John was instantly recognized on a throne, although he was older and fatter than the last time I had seen him, while he was murdering his nephew. The extra years had just added to his look of dissolution. He was flanked by high-ranked clerics in their finery, and a few—astonishingly few—loyal supporters. William Marshal was with him, and some men arrayed like bishops.
Looking along the rows of benches occupied by the opposing nobility, I recognized many I knew, all of them older than I remembered. Among them sat unfamiliar, younger men, probably heirs of those who had died in the generation that had passed since the crusade. And all of them were grim-faced and purposeful, as they must be if they were in revolt against their liege lord the king. What in the world could have brought about this rebellion?
A stocky herald in gaudy tabard arose on the rebels’ side and began to read from a large sheet of parchment. He was facing the throne as if dictating terms of surrender to the king, but his text was worded as if spoken by the king himself. That confused me for a moment, but then I realized that the rebels expected John to sign and seal this tirade as his own proclamation.
JOHN, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, to his archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, barons, justices, foresters, sheriffs, stewards, servants, and to all his officials and loyal subjects . . .
If my preceding visions had been correct, then most of those titles were historical fictions by now.
. . . that we have granted to God, and by this present charter have confirmed. . .
Heirs may be given in marriage, but not to someone of lower social standing. Before a marriage takes place, it shall be made known to the heir’s next-of-kin . . .
If a man dies owing money to Jews, his wife may have her dower and pay nothing towards the debt from it. . .
No man shall be forced to perform more service for a knight’s fee, or other free holding of land, than is due from it. . .
The city of London shall enjoy all its ancient liberties and free customs, both by land and by water. We also will and grant that all other cities, boroughs, towns, and ports shall enjoy all their liberties and free customs . . .
“Father! Father, wake up!” A heavy hand slapped my face. Unable to rouse me from my long trance, Lovise had sent for Lars. “Wake up, Father. You’ve been gone for hours.”
“Lars? Where . . .” I was in my chair in Oxford. Wasn’t I?
No. I was standing on high battlements, and a quick glance around told me exactly which castle they belonged to, because I knew it well, having almost died in a cellar there, long, long ago. Lincoln is one of the largest, strongest, and most strategic fortresses in England. But I had seen it only in days of peace, in the reign of Good King Henry. There was no peace now, with arrows flying and the battlements manned by troops in armor. Crash! The masonry trembled under my feet as a missile struck the walls.
Sheltering behind the merlon next along from mine, a man was shouting orders in a shrill voice. He was not tall, and wisps of white hair hung from below his helmet, yet he seemed to be in charge, for men ran to carry out his orders. Then he turned to peer out the crenel at the enemy, and I saw that he wasn’t a he at all. She was my old friend, Nicholaa de la Haye, hereditary constable of the castle, a woman quite as tough and determined as Dowager Queen Eleanor. Nicholaa would not surrender to God himself, even if the walls were collapsing around her. She was old now, but chain mail suited her.
So who were the enemy? I looked out upon Lincoln market square, crammed with troops and two small trebuchets. Ha! They would need a lot more artillery than that if they were to take Lincoln Castle. The last time there had been a Battle of Lincoln had been during the anarchy, the civil war that I recalled from my childhood. Had John’s misrule brought those terrible days back again?
Then I saw that the besiegers’ flags bore the yellow fleurs-de-lis of France. Merciful Heavens! A French army in the heart of England? Oh, John, John! What horrors have you wrought?
I saw no more, because Lars tipped a jug of water over my head and yanked me out of my trance. He had solved the problem by means he had been taught in the College, but with the caveat that they should only be used in grave emergencies, because such sudden withdrawals can be dangerous to the subject. One such emergency is a state of trance lasting more than two hours, which mine already had. I survived unharmed, although I was confused at first. I forget what I babbled while Lovise wiped my face and Lars poured me more water, this time to drink.
“Whenever you’ve been to, Father, here it’s still 1193. King Richard is still a prisoner in the Empire. Remember now?”
I drank a bucketful and then nodded. “Um. Yes. But I have been shown a terrible, terrible future.”
Lovise fetched dry clothes for me, and went to find some food while I changed. Then the three of us settled into chairs, and between mouthfuls I outlined what I had witnessed. I had seen Richard die, which he must do eventually, of course, but the death I envisioned would be due to his own fo
lly and when he had reigned only ten years. He would die childless, because John was going to succeed. There would be some dispute about that, and later John would personally murder Arthur, his nephew. In subsequent years he would lose all or most of his lands on the continent, and his barons would rise in revolution. And after that the ultimate disaster of a French invasion.
There was a long silence. Bats were chirping in the darkness outside.
“Advise me!” I pleaded. “I trust you two more than any else in the world. If I tell all this to anyone else, I will be chained to a wall in some prison for the insane. Why have I been shown all this? What am I supposed to do about it?”
“You haven’t told me everything that happened here the night that Lord John came visiting,” Lars said.
I let Lovise tell him, for I was hoarse. I could not shake the certainty that all this outpouring of foresight had been vouchsafed me so that I could do something with it, but I could not see what that something might be.
“Well?” I said at last. “What does it mean? What must I do? Why me, and why now?”
“I think that ‘now’ is important, Father. But first, who is sending you these visions, and are they good or evil?”
My wife and son then stared at me as if I were a criminal on trial.
“The visions must come from either Heaven or Hell,” I said, “but that isn’t very helpful, is it? Either will act through an agent, a saint or a devil.”
“Do they lead you to do good or evil acts?” Lovise asked, ever logical.
“Good, I think. With my foresight I helped the Lionheart strike a couple of deadly blows against Saladin. I probably saved him from falling into Phillip’s deadly clutches. I count those as good.”
“But your visions have never failed! You think that now you can change the future?”
“They failed once,” I said. “In Dürnstein Castle.” And suddenly I understood. “No! The future can’t be changed by ordinary means. But it can be changed by other magic!”
“Lars?” Lovise said. “You think you know the answer.” Mothers are good at making statements like that.
Lars, of course, was no longer the boy who had scrumped the deacon’s apples and battered the school bully to jelly. He was a prize graduate sage, an experienced traveler, and he had been quietly nodding for some time as I recited the wisdom I had received from the Myrddin Wyllt.
“Merlin? Are you truly Merlin Redux, Father?”
“No!” I insisted. “If I were, I would surely have more control over the seeings. But Merlin’s ghost may be sending me these visions. Or Merlin himself, in his lifetime, may have foreseen the need for someone to . . . oh, such twisted speculations must drive a man mad.”
“That makes more sense, I think. He could have foreseen the need for you to recover ancient, forgotten magic. He’s been training you for this all your life. Have you ever had a whole gallery of visions thrown at you like this? Like tonight’s collection, I mean?”
“Never. But it varies. Sometimes there is no vision. I remember Baron William asking me questions and I would tell him the answers without having been aware that I knew them. But this entire wagonload of sordid future history dumped on me all at once . . . no, never.”
“I said early on that I thought this foreseeing of yours would lead to something important. And now I think that what happened tonight is important. You have been shown the stakes. The time has come for you to do what is required of you.”
I shivered. Lovise said, “Do you think Lord John really has a letter from this Father Ferdinand describing you playing Judas?”
At that we had to explain to Lars about John’s threats and my actions in Vienna. He pulled a face as if he’d drained a horn full of lemon juice. He thought for a moment and then suddenly lost color.
“You’ve found the answer?” his mother asked.
He nodded. “Merlin! Tell me, Father, what name do you most associate with Merlin—the original Merlin, I mean?”
“King Arthur, of course.”
“The once and future king!"
Lovise whispered, “Oh, no!”
“It makes sense,” our son insisted. “Merlin has trained Father to see the future as he did, and the future is a tyrant so terrible that the earls and barons of England revolt against him. A tyrant who is defeated in battle, who brings back the horrors of the Anarchy, when Stephen and Maud fought for the throne. A tyrant who murders the right-wise born king, Arthur of Brittany. This revelation comes immediately after that same villain threatens to destroy Father, so that they are now mortal enemies—literally mortal enemies.”
I was appalled by this logic. “And what am I supposed to do? Challenge John to a duel? Ambush him with a crossbow? Poison his wine cup?”
“I think your method of attack is obvious.”
“My powers do not extend to murder.”
“Of course they do,” Lars said. “Murder by magic. And if you review Lord John’s horoscope, I’m sure you’ll find that he is in a very vulnerable period just now. The brother he has betrayed is alive after all and about to be either released outright or ransomed. Three nights ago, he led a band of men-at-arms and a sorcerer against a low-born Saxon cripple and suffered total defeat. We must strike while the stars are against him, Father!”
I shivered, recalling some of the atrocities I had witnessed in my long war against the Sons of Satan. Must I now change sides? But my son had said We, and I took comfort from that.
But not much comfort. “You both know that to commit the horrible crime you propose would require full-blooded black magic performed at midnight on a pentagram. I should need four accomplices, and all five of us would be risking our immortal souls.” Years ago, Lord John himself had predicted that such would be my fate.
“Count me as one, of course,” Lars said.
“And me as another, dear.”
“Lovise! You’re not serious!”
“I am serious. You think I am that flighty Queen Eleanor, to betray my husband? I have not forgotten my wedding vows. Besides, I think Lars is right. You are Merlin’s successor, and Arthur Plantagenet is to be Arthur Pendragon’s. Why has it taken us so long to see this? Your destiny and duty is to secure his path to the throne of England—Arthur Redux!”
“There are still only three of us. We must have five. Who will believe our story or volunteer to imperil his soul? Do you expect me to go around the College asking who would like to join in a jolly pentagram party to kill the king’s brother?”
Lovise stood up. “It is obvious that we should all sleep on this. Lars, do you want to go home for what’s left of the night or would you rather stay in your old room here?”
Sometimes ideas that have seemed too horrible to contemplate will suddenly metamorphose into obvious truths, and this was one of them. A man who would take a sword to a chained and unarmed youth would certainly not hesitate to revenge his humiliation at the hands of a despised Saxon wizard. I now considered my danger from Lord John to be both clear and imminent. And so must Myrddin Wyllt—whatever mysterious entity lay behind that name—because he, or it, had rushed me through the rest of the evidence at breakneck speed. John no longer had his tame sorcerer to hand, but he might have a back-up for all I knew. If he truly possessed a letter signed by Father Ferdinand—or had counterfeited such a letter based on Bran’s farseeing—he might drop it on the privy council’s table at any moment, although he would more likely recognize that anything coming from him would seem tainted, and find some crony to deliver it for him.
Someone, for instance, like William the Marshall? I shivered all over at the thought.
The next morning, therefore, I was abroad at first light, sad-dled up and riding north. Late on the second day, I reached William Legier’s seat outside Loughborough and was relieved to find him at home. They all made me welcome: William himself, Millisende, and their surviving sons, Enguerrand, Frank, and Guiscard, who was very nearly a young man now and enjoyed hearing me confirm his own certainty that he already
was.
Millisende had suffered a bad crusade, losing four children at a single stroke, plus living for two years in the dread that her husband might never return either. She was thinner, although her black mourning dress contributed to that impression, and her hair was white as ivory. My arrival must serve to remind her of the losses she had suffered that Lovise had not, yet she greeted me with unaffected joy.
William himself showed me to my usual room. Then he closed the door, leaned against it, and said, “What’s wrong? You look like a three-day-old corpse.”
“A week old at least. William, old friend, I have a very great favor to ask, something I never thought I would ask of anyone. I also have a long story to tell you, so that you will understand my need.” He folded his arms. “I will never, ever, suspect you of lying to me, friend Ironfoot, so just tell me in two short sentences.”
“A few years from now, King Richard will die childless. John will inherit the throne and run the country into utter ruin. He will lose—”
“Two sentences, I said. So what are you planning to do about it?”
“Kill John. Now.”
“A very good plan, I’d say. Count me in. But I foresee trouble when his big brother returns to his realm.”
“My way of killing can get around that problem. I shall use black magic. But I need two helpers to complete the pentagram.” His face darkened. “And what happens?”
“Lord John suffers a fatal accident, wherever he happens to be at the time.”
William laughed then. “Is that all? Happy to oblige. I wouldn’t call that black magic at all—more a public benevolence. And I think I know someone else who would happily make up your five.”
“I thought you might. You told me his story once, remember?”
William’s brewer makes the finest ale in the county, and the two of us consumed a lot of it far into the night as I told him the entire story, in detail. I had judged him correctly. Above all, William Legier was a fighter, and any true knight must despise the conniving, faithless John Plantagenet. As I had been, he was disgusted to learn that Richard was going to give his shameless brother a pardon instead of the hempen collar he deserved.
